


grief

by aroundofgwent



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Animal Death, Established Relationship, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 06:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17278955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroundofgwent/pseuds/aroundofgwent
Summary: Warden Mahariel and Zevran revisit a place of grief.





	grief

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a tumblr prompt and originally posted [here.](http://aroundofgwent.tumblr.com/post/163573489586/maharielzevran-marigold) Fair warning: there are discussions and mentions of death, including animal death, in this fic, but it's nothing graphic or *too* angsty. That said, I do hope you enjoy reading it!

It’s already been raining for hours when she hops off from the back of the dwarven merchant’s wagon, cool air and dense fog stinging in her lungs and the hollows of her skull. Behind her, three consecutive thuds follow on the wagon’s trail, and then a fourth, rolling on the ground with momentum. She hurries to help him up on his feet, while he quips something about their first meeting and the Ferelden weather. She ignores his wistful words, just as she ignores the cracking in her knees and the lingering ache in her back made worse by the biting cold. 

Bog critters scurry away when she moves to retrieve their discarded belongings, frogs jumping underneath flat stones and bogfishers lying low in the water at cautious distances. It no longer surprises her when it happens: she heralds the blight, and these lands– they remember. As they should.

“We could wait until tomorrow morning.” Zevran’s hand at the back of her neck feels warm even through the damp fabric of her cloak, but she’s in no frame of mind to relish the comforting touch. “The weather might not improve, but at least it won’t be pitch-black, no?”

“No, I need to– ” She shakes her head as if warding off pesky flies, and scowls. “No. Just set up the tent, please, will you?”

“As you wish.”

He gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze that she’s learned to recognize as  _I know you can handle this on your own, but you don’t have to,_ or perhaps tonight it’s a simple _I am here._  Either way, she doesn’t have to answer for him to know she’s grateful.

She walks to the place where almost two decades ago they’ve both buried family. Zevran– a pair of leather gloves, symbolically, the token of a memory long forgotten. She– ashes from twisted, rotten flesh burnt in flames so inescapably real that it still makes her stomach turn. Now she finds herself kneeling on the wet ground again, ashes in one pouch and seeds in another, and there’s still nothing graceful about death. Hers is a fumbling attempt at holding onto flimsy tendrils of hope, but sacrifice isn’t poetic and a wound doesn’t heal because the spilled blood is brave and noble. 

Nor does any of this bring the dead back. Yet she scoops out a few handfuls of soil, murmuring a prayer to Falon'Din, what little she remembers of it. In the small hole she places the ashes carefully, and then the seeds, and then she stops. 

And then she waits.

Zevran’s figure moves like a shadow behind her until he’s by her side, squatting down next to her. “ _Mi amada_ ,” he whispers against the top of her head, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay. You can let go now.”

The tears she’s been holding back on begin falling presently, and she’s gasping and shaking, clutching the mud in her fists, watching helplessly as the rain water mixes with the ashes, overflowing the hollow in the ground and carrying them away. She cries until there are no more tears to be shed, and then, at last, they walk away.

* * *

“I think he knew,” she mumbles in the darkness of their tent, and Zevran shuffles slightly at her back. “Knew that he was going to die soon. He was different lately.”

“Different how?” He’s embracing her from behind, and now–  _now_  she can finally allow herself to be comforted.

“Reckless. He threw himself into battle with recklessness.”

He nods, kissing her hair softly. “He wanted to die this way. Fighting by your side, protecting you.”

“He didn’t have to.”

“You didn’t have to risk your life to save him either, yet you did. Could you have asked him to do less?”

She sighs, and a for few long moments they’re both silent, listening to the sound of rain slapping on their tent. 

“What do you think? Would Tamlen have liked him?” 

The question takes her by surprise, and she lets out a breathy chuckle. “That incredible idiot would’ve loved a mabari. The clan was lucky we didn’t have a dog when we were young.” 

She can feel Zevran’s smile on her skin as he kisses her shoulder. “I’m sure they didn’t find your mischief lacking, even without a dog.”

“No,” and she sighs again, her head light and heavy at the same time, “they did not.”

* * *

“How did they grow here, I wonder?”

She raises her eyes from where she’s mincing marigold leaves with elfroot stem, preparing salves for their travels. “The marigolds?”

“I didn’t notice them last night. And I certainly didn’t expect to find them in Ferelden’s swamps, of all places.”

Humming in agreement, she watches the bushes with copper-gold flowers swaying in the wind near the two–  _three_ – trees they’ve planted together. “They remind me of Antiva.”

“Shall we go back, cariño?”

“Soon.”

Zevran nods, a warm and easy smile spreading on his face. “Soon.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! ♥


End file.
